


Happy anniversary, baby

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Inspired by Killing Eve (TV 2018), Knifeplay, M/M, Mirrors, Morality, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Murder Fantasy, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Sensuality, Sexual Tension, Stabbing (referenced), Unhealthy Relationships, criminality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Their relationship was never normal per se—really, it was all one big game of cat and mouse that had culminated in him stabbing Tom in a hospital elevator—but that was all in the past; at least itwas. Now, though, Tom's back, and he's not best pleased.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 10
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a longer fic that never came to fruition, but it might be a half-decent read if you've got nothing better to do. Apologies for the similarities to some of my other fics, and that this is so heavily influenced by Killing Eve.

It started, as everything seemed to, with a parcel—except this wasn’t a parcel politely delivered to Harry’s front door and left outside, on his doorstep, for him to find at his leisure—because that would have been too easy. Rather, this was a parcel delivered, with an alacrity, right to the centre of his bed; the bed that was in his bedroom, which was in his locked apartment, where Harry lived alone. 

And a parcel like that would only mean thing: Tom was back. 

Harry sighed and shrugged off his jacket, before sitting down beside the parcel—or rather, box—the mattress dipped under his weight and the box slid closer to him, bumping against his thigh. It was a sophisticated thing, all sleek and black like a sports car, and tied up with a pretty green ribbon, fashioned into an artificial bow.

Tom was always one for artificial glamour, to the extent that he could make a murder look alluring. He probably had done. 

Without moving, Harry continued to watch the box with mild suspicion, his hearing hyperaware, searching the quiet of his apartment for any ominous noises, such as the cartoonish ticking of a detonator, but drama wasn’t exactly Tom’s style. He was more… slippery, like a snake sliding through the undergrowth, stalking its prey methodically, and striking with a precision that was almost enviable in its execution. 

So, on the bright side, this box probably _wasn’t_ laced with enough explosives to obliterate his apartment and likely the one across the hall as well—because, although he wasn’t dramatic, Tom _was_ petty, and pettiness was almost always accompanied by a certain lack of subtly. But it wasn’t actually a bomb, so none of that mattered.

Harry sighed again. He was prevaricating, as usual, a repeat offence when it came to Tom, that stemmed, although he wouldn’t admit it, from an intoxicating mixture of anticipation, expectation and a perverse form of wanting that Tom exploited over, and over again. It was a combination that accompanied Tom as the rain accompanies an English summer—frequently hovering right on the edge, and often spilling over, and always maintaining a degree of unpredictability that Tom used to his absolute advantage.

Though that being said, Harry could have guessed that Tom would resurface eventually, and it would hardly be a surprise that he was his first appointment. 

If anything, Harry was rather surprised that it had taken him this long to find him. Of course, the rational, decent, part of him wanted Tom to never catch up, and for all the bad things he’d ever done to not have consequences, but that wasn’t how life worked—especially not his life—and the more Harry searched for it, the more he found his sense of decency lacking. 

It had been swallowed by a sick sense of longing. 

The sort that had him waiting at bus stops and train stations, trying to spot Tom standing across the street, or coming home late at night and hoping for a sticky note stuck to the fridge, or maybe even Tom’s voice broadcasting itself through his speaker, echoing through his entire apartment. But nothing had happened for so long that Harry had considered making the next move himself. 

But that would have seemed desperate. 

Now though, Harry was sitting here with a tingling in the tips of his fingers, and his pulse thrumming in his neck because Tom was finally playing their game again—though, Harry suspected the rules, if they had existed at all, had been altered now without his input. Hardly a surprise. There were few people who could take being stabbed in an elevator and still be nice about it, and you didn’t have to be particularly perceptive to work out that Tom wasn’t one of them. 

Taking a deep breath, the itching in his palms preventing him from waiting any longer, Harry picked up the box and placed it on his lap. It was heavier than he expected, and clearly contained something reasonably substantial, which was more thrilling than it should have been. Slowly, and with the utmost care, Harry ran his fingers down the edge—sliding smooth and even over the rim of the lid, interrupted only by the feel of the green ribbon. 

With the same carefulness, as though the box was impossibly delicate, Harry undid that ribbon, smoothing it between his fingers and placing it to his right. He swallowed again, his feet twitching and tapping against the carpet, and the hum of his pulse so loud in his ear. 

Harry lifted the lid. 

Inside were three packages, each individually wrapped in green crepe paper and tied with a silver ribbon, and, on top of the largest was a stark, white, business card that appeared on the outset to be completely blank. Harry picked it up by the edges and turned it over; it wasn’t blank, for, on the reverse, in Tom’s distinctive handwriting were three simple words:

_Happy anniversary, baby._

Harry swallowed hard; he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t realised that the last time he’d seen Tom was a year ago now, and Tom never forgot a date—especially one that had so dramatically altered the dynamic of their lives. So, with trembling fingers and a newfound desperation that blended seamlessly with frustration, and a brutally simplistic need, Harry tossed the card aside and picked up the first package. It was large and flat and soft, but Harry barely noticed the weight and the feel before he was pulling off the wrapping. 

It was a suit. A full suit the colour of crushed loganberries accompanied by a warm-white shirt, a black belt with a gold buckle and no tie—it was audacious and expensive and so gorgeous. Soft material that was smooth and glossy; silky on his palms and perfectly matched his skin tone. Without thinking, Harry found himself swallowing again, harder this time, and clutching at the material of the suit as a child might to their favourite stuffed animal. 

Tom had always had a good taste in clothes—and everything else for that matter—but as Harry was admiring it, he had a thought that sent him scrabbling for the label. He’d been working out somewhat more regularly in the past year, and he doubted that his old size would have flattered him as much as the next one up.

He needn’t have worried, and really, he should have guessed given how meticulous Tom always was. The suit was made for his current size and stitched in beside the size label were the words: _wear me_. Harry swallowed again, it was such an _intimate_ gesture, one that made him look up and glance around his small, bare bedroom; he didn’t have a tailor, and he usually shopped online, so the only way anyone could possibly know his size was if they had been in his room and rifled through his clothes. 

Tom had been here, and he hadn’t even noticed. 

Still watching the furniture with narrowed eyes, Harry shifted on the mattress, placing his feet firmly on the floor and taking a long, deep, exhale, as though it would quieten the throbbing of his heart. It didn’t. If anything, the revelation thrilled him—Tom _had_ been watching, and Tom _had_ been waiting, and that could only mean that Tom had been winding himself up—teasing himself—with tantalising scraps of what he couldn’t have… yet.

Harry could almost picture him charming his neighbour into letting him in, and coming here into this very room, and lying down exactly where Harry was lying right now; just lying still with his arms outstretched and breathing in his scent and imagining what it would be like to meet him again. 

To touch him again. 

He was so involved in his artificial construction of intimacy that Harry almost forgot Tom had been generous enough to provide more than one expensive gift—and they were expensive—because Harry knew how good Tom was at spending other people’s money. So, pulling the suit fully from its wrapping, Harry put it to the side and picked up the next item. This one was hard and heavy in his hands; a square shape most likely made of glass that clinked when he tapped his nails against it. 

Just removing an inch of wrapping revealed that it was cologne, in a brand that Harry didn’t recognise even as he stripped the rest of the paper and laid it bare to the world. It too was beautiful; thick, black, glass fashioned into a cube and filled with a clear liquid, in a design that spoke to both a masculine austerity and a feminine elegance. Just holding it up to the light and watching the liquid—dyed black and endless like smouldering coals—glide about the bottle. 

Taking the lid off, Harry sprayed the scent into the air. Once, then twice because it was so thick and heady with a musky base that got Harry inhaling as deep as he could, trying to lodge the sticky sweetness so deep into his lungs that it would never come out. Closing his eyes, Harry could imagine Tom wearing this; he could practically _taste_ it on his pulse point, worn with use but still compulsive to press his mouth to, like they used to before Harry did something so morally, and criminally wrong. 

But you really shouldn’t bring a knife to a hook-up, if you don’t, at least contemplate, the possibility of being stabbed with it. 

Harry shook his head, trying to get the thought out before it festered and made his mind bloom with thoughts he shouldn’t have, like how agonisingly good Tom looked with his hair falling in his eyes and his shirt covered in blood. He shook his head again, harder, and concentrated on turning the bottle over and over, spraying it again to get the full body of the scent. It was as he was doing that that he felt a small card tacked to the bottom of the glass; turning it upside down, he read the almost predictable words: _smell me_. 

Well, if the bottle said that, then Harry would use it as an excuse to do what he wanted; he gave the bottle a final pump and breathed in as deeply as he could, as though he was trying to drown in the scent. He put it down after that and lifted the final gift out of the box—this one was clearly a bottle of sorts and had its label stuck to the outside. _Taste me_. A provocative suggestion that Harry was far too willing to indulge, and he shifted again, squeezing his thighs together; there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to get another taste of Tom. 

But given that was currently—though unlikely for long—an impossibility, he’d have to settle for whatever Tom had provided him with. So, with stupid, trembling, fingers, Harry pulled down one strip of paper from the centre of the bottle, but that was all he needed to see; Tom’s final gift was a bottle of Syrah wine emblazoned in bloody red with his favourite brand: _TOM_. It was so outrageously shameless that it practically represented the height of egotistical conceit, but Harry still found himself biting his lip and trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted at the thought of drinking this and tasting Tom. 

Especially given that he could all but picture Tom’s expression as he wrapped it up; that smug satisfaction with his own achievements. And thinking about Tom smiling was just a cheap way to segue into far more _inappropriate_ thoughts, such as Tom looking at him from across the room of a party that only one of them was invited to, and Tom pushing him up against the door, one hand on his neck and the other playing with the zipper of his jeans. And all Harry would be able to taste was the red wine on Tom’s tongue and the remnants of his cologne infused into his skin, and that was all he’d need. 

Harry continued to clutch the bottle—still half-wrapped—in his hands, as he flopped back onto the mattress, staring at the plain ceiling, his heart throbbing and his palms itching and his stomach fluttering. 

There must be something wrong with him because he couldn’t stop thinking of Tom. Even when he squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to see stars all he could think about was Tom with his dark eyes, standing in front of the window and blocking out the light of the sun; Tom lying next to him, staring at the ceiling, and holding his hand, and promising him the world; Tom looking at him with murder etched into every angle of his face, and blood on his hands and a kitchen knife sticking out of his abdomen, as the elevator door closed.

Well, they certainly had a lot to catch up on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...I have mixed feelings about this.

Half an hour later, Harry was back in the living room, sitting with a cup of tea in his favourite chair that stood at the best angle to watch television, but also provided a nice view out the window—it was one of the few decent things about this otherwise cheap and fairly useless apartment. When he’d been living with Tom, the apartments were never quite this crumby; in fact, with him, it had always been a matter of luxury over expense.

Tom liked living the high life wherever he went, and that usually included apartments whose rent made Harry’s eyes water, and luxury cars he liked to drive faster than he should, and, of course, the other luxuries like new suits every week and bespoke colognes. Simply, Tom liked pretty, expensive, things, and he liked to surround himself with them—usually at the expense of practical items.

All that money and all that glamour had been intoxicating, and half the time Harry could hardly believe that it was all even real. But then reality would hit. And Tom would come home with a thrill burning in his eyes, and his fingers twitching, and this buzz hanging around him, and Harry would be violently reminded of the morally questionable things that Tom did to get his hands on such obscene paycheques. That had been the hard part to accept. 

At least, it _had_ been, until Harry had stabbed Tom and got his first taste of grievous bodily harm. 

It hadn’t been particularly pretty, in fact, there had been a whole lot of panicking—his own—and a good helping shock—also his—and that was all topped off with a serving of irritation—that was exclusively Tom’s. The rest of that week had been filled with a combination of regret that had him staring at the ceiling for hours at a time; thrill that made his hands shake and his heart throb; and desperation that resulted in him eating a whole tub of ice cream with a fork, whilst sitting on his kitchen floor, doused only in the light of the fridge.

Harry shook his head and took a sip of his tea; that hadn’t exactly been his finest week, and to be perfectly honest, he’d rather forget that it ever happened. 

Instead, he watched his own reflection because this chair was also the closest to the large mirror that the apartment had come with and Harry hadn’t planned on staying here long enough to bother removing it. So, it had stayed, its large, rectangular, reflection plastered obnoxiously all over the wall, though, right now, that view was significantly softened by his own presence. 

The colour of his new suit standing out firm and bright in the otherwise beige room and Harry couldn’t help but run the fingers of his spare hand over the fabric, feeling its smoothness under his fingertips, and scratching it just to hear the static. Tom hadn’t provided a tie, so Harry hadn’t worn one, and his shirt was open at the top button, his throat tantalisingly exposed to the stifling heat of the room—though, maybe, that had more to do with his own body temperature than the external warmth of a rather pleasant, at least according to the thermometer, room. 

Harry had spent quite a while—probably an embarrassing length of time, really—constructing the scene all for Tom’s appreciation. Just curating the room to emphasise the small details, like placing the gift box on the coffee table, and the wine on the sideboard, and trying to decide what was the most flattering lighting to be seen in. 

In the end, he’d gone with a minimalist look, in part, to appreciate the colours of the sinking sun that lined the window with a thick coating of peaches, pinks and pale purples, and in part, to create a dramatic spotlight on his chair that made shadows drip down the lines of his face and pool in that exposed hollow of his throat. Tom would like that. Tom would like that a lot. Mostly because, Tom’s weaknesses for handsome, cultivated, things extended to people, especially if they were dangerous too. 

And Harry had found it to be quite the exploitable weakness.

Harry took another sip of his tea, the saucer was shaking dangerous in his hand until he put it back on the side, quickly followed by the still half-filled teacup. He’d nearly opened the wine—now sitting behind him, but visible in the reflection—before deciding that he’d rather save it for when Tom turned up. Mostly, because Tom’s narcissism ran deep enough that tasting something emblazoned with his own name would probably put him in a good mood, but also because knowing that Harry had waited just to indulge him, would put him in an even better one. 

Today, though, even tea was failing to stop his nerves jangling, and a heady anticipation was continuing to bloom like an invasive species in his lungs. In a poor attempt to reconstitute himself with the reality, Harry slid his hand down the side of the chair—between the seat cushion and the hardness of the side—to where he had secreted a knife. It was a long, serrated, affair that was pointed at the tip, the internet said it was serrated slicing knife, but Harry was pretty sure the exact semantics didn’t particularly matter.

All he needed to know what that it was long and sharp, and so _heavy_ in his palm; the sort of knife that was used to cut cake slices in the sweet little cafés they used to go out to on dates. Harry missed those dates. He missed meeting Tom surreptitiously in cosy English villages no one had ever heard of, and he missed the rush of having Tom turn up on his doorstep unannounced; he even missed driving five-hundred-and-fifty miles overnight because Tom was staying in Aberdeen for the weekend and was begging to buy him dinner. 

Simply, he missed Tom, but he wasn’t going to tell him that; nor, was he going to assume that Tom had missed him in the same way. That was why he had a knife. 

But, if he was being honest, Harry didn’t expect to have to use it—after all, Tom stabbing him would be predictable and somewhat childish—but, then again, you could never be too careful when Tom was involved, especially when it involved revenge; Harry had seen the results of him running into old acquaintances, whose opinion of him had soured. It didn’t tend to be pretty. Though, if there was one defining feature of such encounters, it was the intense _intimacy_ of Tom’s retributions.

If he wanted it to be slow, then it would be the slowest, profoundest, and most cherished, murder that anyone had ever had the pleasure of witnessing, or rather, _hearing_. Harry could still remember the first time he’d heard one of Tom’s recordings; that hypnotic way that Tom spoke when he knew he had someone’s full attention, and how calm—even friendly—he’d sounded as he talked to a man bleeding out for nigh on three hours. 

It was a harrowing thing to hear.

Raising his hand back up from the knife, Harry clutched at his cup with both hands, before raising it to his mouth and taking another, small, sip of his tea, savouring it on his tongue as he swallowed. The sound seemed to be horrifically loud in what was otherwise a quiet room, the pleasant silence only interrupted by the faint noise of traffic outside, and the ticking of the clock as it struck down the minutes until Tom’s, most likely, violent re-entry into his life. 

Harry tried to block out the sounds and just focus on his reflection; perhaps, that way, he could ignore how his stomach was tying itself up knot after knot as he squirmed against the chair—his suit sliding on the leather as though it was slicked with oil. It was certainly heavy enough right now. Although the material was made for the season and should have been crisp and cool, Harry was feeling damp and hot; the suit a weight pushing him down against the chair, and the shirt scratching at his wrists and biting the back of his neck. 

Just to try and alleviate the discomfort, Harry reached up and pressed a hand under his collar; like this, he could feel what a sticky, nervous, wreck he was. Harry took a deep inhale and closed his eyes. In the safety of darkness, he trailed his hand higher, sliding the tips of his fingers up into his hairline and scraping them over his scalp—using enough pressure with his nails for it to burn—just as Tom used to do when they were lying in bed together, and he was feeling particularly indulgent. 

A simple touch that made Harry’s insides burn with want. 

Even with the disadvantage of his own hand, it was calming and nice, and Harry could feel his heart rate slowing as he traced his fingers over the above his ear, following his natural hairline; he continued that same line down the contour of his throat until his thumb was resting on the crest, and he could feel the full weight of his pulse thudding beneath his skin. 

Tom used to touch his neck like that—with dominant gentleness that he adored—and Harry had never found anyone who did it as Tom did. It wasn’t for want of trying. A year was a long time and more than once, Harry had tried to re-enter the dating pool, but—in short—it hadn’t worked out. 

When you’d lived with Tom for long enough, you started to crave the constant amusement. Nothing else seemed to be able to fill that gaping hole inside him, the one that _yearned_ for someone with as much brutality in their being as sophistication; for someone who turned cruelty into a work of art; for someone who was _weak_ enough for a taste of him that they’d played Russian roulette with their boss’ head.

There weren’t many people like that in the dating pool.

Harry sighed and let his thumb linger for another, long, moment, before dropping his hand down to his thigh. He swallowed and shifted himself again, opening his eyes to decide whether it would look better to have his legs crossed and slightly to the side like a Bond villain or spread wide enough to give Tom ideas. With his head tilted to the left and his chin raised, Harry placed both feet flat against the wood of the floor and spread his hand, wider, over his thigh—his fingers gripping at the muscle as Tom had always done. 

He looked good like that.

Strong and expensive and in control; definitely _not_ like someone who could barely swallow thanks to the heartbeat in their throat. Tom would certainly like what he saw, with any luck, he might even like it enough to forget that he was supposed to be getting revenge, and they could skip the preamble and go straight to the main event. 

“You know,” interrupted someone from behind Harry's chair, “I’d almost forgotten how tasty you look when you make an effort.”

Harry screamed out loud—because there was someone in his fucking apartment—and whipped around, knocking off his teacup in the process; its contents spilling out and the porcelain smashing as it hit the floor. He was still screaming when he came face to face with Tom.

He was standing behind Harry’s chair, up against the wall, swathed in the darkest shadows; his eyebrow raised as he alternated his gaze between watching Harry and watching the largest piece of the teacup rolling over to the carpet. As he continued to watch the scene with a curiosity usually reserved for arsonists admiring their artistry, Tom was repeatedly, and ever so casually, tossing up and catching an apple that he’d clearly taken from Harry’s fruit bowl. 

“The door was unlocked,” he said by way of explanation, as his gaze came up to meet Harry’s, though he still managed to catch the apple and raise it to his mouth, “so I let myself in.”


End file.
